Seven Days of South Italy
by Devin Trinidad
Summary: #romanoweek2019: A series of drabbles based on themes presented by this year's romanoweek on tumblr.
1. April 28: Pizza

Honestly, Romano should have seen this coming.

He was never the best with his hands and he certainly wasn't the best with the graces of Lady Luck. He also, quite certainly, never thought that he would have landed himself in such a situation.

But he did.

And just like when he was taking out a beautiful woman out on a date, he was going to be the one paying for it.

Not that he minded paying for the girl! It's just that…well…

"Wow, brosef! Got yourself a bad hand, huh?"

The rogueish smirk on the American's face did little to assuage Romano's ire. In fact, one might even think that his current negativity was stoked and set further aflame by that idiot's idiocy!

Romano slouched in his chair before dashing his cards onto the table. No need to play the exotic gentlman when the only audience to see him was a worthless fool with terrible taste in Absolutely EVERYTHING.

"Wow," he muttered dully. "I lost."

America slapped a hand on the Italian's right shoulder, only showing a slight bit of concern at Romano's pained grimace before gesturing towards the middle of the table.

At the centerpiece.

That damned abomination with its overly puffy dough and thick cheese, strewn with a variety of ingredients that had Romano's stomach rolling in discomfort.

His poor, poor, poor stomach.

The idiot laughed. "Already speechless? I can't wait—"

"I'm going to die."

"Don't be like that! Take a bite and—"

"One bite of that horrible abomination that mated with a pineapple is surely an invitation straight to the depths of hell!" Romano turned his head in disgust, trying in vain to look as sullen and pitiful as possible. "Do you want me to go to hell, America? Is that what you want?"

The blond hauled a piece of pizza from the dish, a childish grin on his face as he saw a string of cheese trailing after his slice.

"Dude, if eating a Hawaiian Supreme Pizza is getting me straight to the devil's door, then sign me right up!"

At that, South Italy found himself staring at a pizza slice with—

"Look! I even made a slice with a face made out of ham and pineapple bits to make you feel better!"

Romano took one look at the smiling American and back to the heretical piece of food that was bound to take a few centuries off his lifespan.

"Lovely. I'll be sure to savor the flavor."

"Awesome, dude! You go do that!"

And then, Romano, with a large sigh, resigned himself to his fate.


	2. April 29: Fashion

Romano bit his lip as he tried to thread the needle. However, despite his concentration and efforts, all he managed to do was wear his lips thin and his patience even thinner. At his hundredth attempt to get the damned thread to get through the eye of the needle, he threw down his sewing supplies and made as if to get up.

"Are you leaving already?" England, the cocky island of the northern sea, glimpsed up from his crocheting and sent a little smirk in the Italian's direction. "I suppose since you're out of practice—"

"Shut up." Romano switched his posture slightly, in a way that almost seemed natural, before explaining, "I'm just stretching because I've been in the same damn position for so long."

England glanced at him slyly. "I'd say you were hunched over that needle for five minutes."

Romano blanched. "Bullshit! I was—"

England pointed to his wristwatch and made a slight clicking noise with his tongue. The sound was further accompanied with a few shakes of his head before he continued.

"Language, Italy, I can't have you swearing the ears off innocent passers by."

"You're one to talk." Romano crossed his arms as he glared at the blond. "Last time I checked, you've also got a tongue dirty tongue on you."

"Why—!" The British man placed his right hand over his heart, forgetting momentarily that he was supposed to be crocheting. "I am a born and bred gentl—"

"Dio mo—" Romano flung a needle in England's direction, not really caring if it hit its mark (it did) before settling down again with another needle and thread. "—shut up already about that. We get it; you like to wax poetic about how manly you are, even though being a sourpuss gentleman went out of fashion two centuries ago."

England made a faint choking noise.

"Also, knitting is loads better than crocheting."

At that, Romano turned to his work—

"I'll have you know that crocheting is an art form that—"

—and promptly found that this time, the thread was far more amenable to being threaded through the needle.


	3. April 30: Seaside

Romano allowed himself to smile as he lazily allowed his head to become submerged within the salt water, his hair immediately curling and drifting within the environment. For a few minutes, he simply floated underneath the calm blanket of water before his lungs rudely told him to breach the boundaries between air and water.

His hair, stuck to his scalp and curling in a variety of directions, began to drip water onto his bare shoulders and down his cheeks.

Although he was an agricultural man, he could not deny that he absolutely loved being in the water and just allowing himself to be set adrift. Should be become a fisherman? Should he seriously consider hanging up his shovels and hoes for a net and a boat? Wasn't his brother a fisherman back in the day?

Romano chuckled to himself when a small wave rocked him as he lay back in the water.

Time.

Time just didn't exist when the hot sun was beating down on his tanned face and the saltwater was rocking him to sleep.

Why should he continue thinking about such useless things when he could just lie back down and fall asleep?

Yes, he pondered quietly. Perhaps he should consider becoming a fisherman.


	4. May 1: History

South Italy did not like it when anyone, especially fellow Nations, were to walk into his room of hopes and dreams without explicit permission. It was his sanctuary, the only place in the entire world where he could be himself and just laze about without running the risk of getting yelled at. If someone wanted to get into this specific room, _his room_, they would have to schedule an appointment, batter down his door, or—

Or walk into his room like they owned the place.

"What the—" Romano fell off his couch and scrambled into a standing position. The curls that were nestled close to his scalp appeared frazzled and frizzy due to inactivity and the heat of midday. It also gave the impression that he didn't keep himself well kept—a major faux pas considering that both personifications of Italy were playing host to some European Nations. "Who told you to come here? This is my room and I'm in the process of cleaning!"

"Ah." A slow blink and a torturously long yawn. "I can see…that you've been…very busy."

Greece, although he could be quite alert if he wanted, made a show of slowly stumbling forward. His destination was quite clear: Romano's worn couch.

Despite his apprehension, the Italian allowed his sleepy visitor to settle himself within the cushions. He may have been startled to the point of red-faced embarrassment, but he still had some modicum of politeness about him. If his brother downstairs was too busy to play host, then Romano would have to pick up the slack.

That didn't necessarily mean that he would have to enjoy it.

Romano crossed the room and sat in an adjacent chair, mindful of keeping himself a fair distance away from a marble bust of some old emperor that Rome had idolized.

"You must truly…appreciate—" another yawn "—the history…that has been left to you."

"Ah, really?" Romano leaned back in his chair and propped his chin against the back of his hand. His eyes were hidden under a half-lidded expression. Just what was his neighbor to the south getting at? "This is all some old stuff I had lying around."

Greece blinked. "Donating. Have you thought about donating some of these artifacts to a museum?"

Only younger Nations would have gaped at the sudden clarity in Greece's words and the quick lilt of his words. Instead of musing on the sudden interest, Romano really thought about the Nation's suggestion. It was true: Romano did have a lot of stuff and it would be considered prudent and practical to just dump the majority (or all) of his old belongings into some dusty museum out there. Someone would gain some kind of academic joy of observing the dusty old things in a glass case instead of tripping over it in his house.

Truthfully, Romano did think about donating in the past. Numerous times, in fact. However, there was just something holding him back. Perhaps it was sentiment—of losing something that was never his in the first place, but his grandfather's. Perhaps it was pride—who else but he could have the honor of holding onto his grandfather's legacy with such willingness and devotion? Or perhaps—

Romano shrugged. "I'm too lazy to lug anything around in this heat. Give me a few decades to clean things up. History curators can wait."

Greece, already in the throes of sleep, simply nodded his head.

"You're a...slob."

The Italian huffed; his cheeks blossomed a dusty rose before he turned his face away from the slumbering Greek.

"Whatever. No one invited you here anyway."


	5. May 2: Arts

"There." Romano slapped a piece of crumpled paper on top of his brother's keyboard. "I did it and now you can rest easy in knowing that I'm a failure."

"Ah, such a nice—"

"If you think lying to me is going to make me feel better, then you obviously have learned nothing over the past one-hundred fifty years or so." Romano stumbled back into his chair across from his brother. "Also, your pens are shit."

"But, Romano! You have such nice, strong down strokes!" Veneziano excitedly pointed at the mess of scribbles that his brother had hastily made upon request. "Look here! The curlicue is so defined—almost as if it were made by a computer, yet so uniquely you!"

If his brother's eyes didn't stop shining, they would start shining like the brightest star in the sky and Romano would go blind.

Romano didn't want to go blind.

So, away with Veneziano's bright smile.

Romano flicked one of the red pens at his brother's side of the table. He preened when he saw that he got a clear shot at his brother's obnoxiously straight, long nose.

"All I did was write my name three different times in three different styles." He crossed his arms in defiance when he saw that his brother was looking at him in a way that inspired an angry flush to creep up the sides of his neck. "Absolutely no effort was put into it. It's a mess."

"But it's so you!"

"Are you implying that I'm a mess?"

"No!" Veneziano leaped over his side of the office desk (if Germany were present, he would have surely scolded him for not applying that same work ethic into military training), and straight into his brother's personal bubble. "Look! Your handwriting is an art-form! Such style! Such grace! Such—"

Romano slapped his brother's face with a bunch of outdated documents.

"Being patient with you is an art-form. Now shut up and finish your work."


	6. May 3: Plants

This thing was strange.

It was bright red and it was round—almost as if it were an apple. However, the skin was soft and the insides, after he had accidently dropped a few of the precious fruits on the ground, was filled with red guts—like congealed blood. It was a strange fruit, one that had Romano almost throwing the lot out the window.

Why did that stupid conquering bastard have to gift him with such monstrosities from the New World?

"Spain! You jerk!" Romano took off in search for his caretaker, hands full of the offending fruits. "What the hell did you bring into my house? They look like those pustules you would find on a person with the plague!"

At the end of his rant, the Italian managed to find his Spanish overlord overlooking some sort of map of the "Americas" or whatever they were calling those distant lands across the sea.

"Hola, Roma—"

"This." The young child Nation threw one of those evil red things at Spain's face. However, instead of spectacularly splattering against his tanned complexion, the Spaniard happened to catch the fruit in one of his hands. The red thing even had the audacity to not split open and start bleeding over the bastard! "Explain. _This_."

Spain took one long look at the little boy and the fruit.

"You…you don't like the gift I gave you?" The teenage Nation masked a look of hurt from seeping through his expression before kneeling in front of his charge. "The natives there said that they taste really good and—"

Romano gasped. "They eat this!" His voice was so high pitched and so scandalized, his voice managed to crack before ending on a shrill note. "Why would they—"

Spain took a bite.

"You bast—"

Spain held up a hand to stop the suddenly concerned child from jumping at him.

"Romanito, try it."

The little boy opened his mouth to argue some more, but that damn bastard went ahead and placed the fruit against his teeth. In a rage, the boy accidentally bit down and as the guts began to spill into his mouth and coat his tongue, a tangy sensation began to overtake his taste buds.

It was—

_It was—_

_**It was—**_

Romano's eyes watered as he chewed and swallowed the fruit.

"WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU TELL ME TO EAT THIS SOONER? THIS IS THE BEST THING EVER YOU STUPID IDIOT?"


	7. May 4: Cats

No.

Absolutely not.

Why.

Why the ever loving—

"You're getting that look on your face again." Veneziano edged away from his brother; there was a look of faint panic on the younger brother's face. "You're scary like Germany."

Romano ignored the comparison. "Look on my face? I don't have a look on my face!" He pointed to the little box that his younger clutched in his arms. There was a growing sense of alarm on Veneziano's face, but Romano couldn't help but feel vindicated. Good, the little shit had it coming. "But you definitely have something that shouldn't be here."

"Before you say anything—"

"And before you lie, I already know that you have some kind of flea ridden animal in there."

"Don't interrupt me!"

Although Romano was pissed off and tired, he waved a hand so that his brother would continue.

"Signora Valentino's mama cat gave birth and now she has a litter of five kittens to take care of!"

The box that Veneziano held in his arms began to make mewling sounds, as if it were confirming that, yes, his brother was a gigantic idiot with too big a heart.

"And?"

"Well, I kind of told her…that, well…we do have enough space for a cat…or two…"

Romano's eyes bulged out of their sockets.

"You can't have possibly—"

Veneziano proved his fears true as he pulled out two small kittens out of the box. They were tiny, mewling things that pawed at the air and began crying at the new environment. A part of Romano felt bad, such tiny things must have been overwhelmed, but at the same time…

"The little boy down the street likes cats. He's a nice boy that one."

"But I promised Signora Valentino," Veneziano wailed pathetically. "At least try to help me take care of them just for today! Please?"

"No."

"Not even if I do your share of the paperwork for the of the week?"

Romano stilled, his thoughts were going a mile a minute.

If his brother did his work, then he could have more time doing things he actually enjoyed…

But that meant, he would have to spend more time with the cat…but freedom of paperwork… The very idea had him nodding slowly as he trudged closer to the box and peered inside. One of the stupid things looked up at him and just simply stared, as if challenging him to say something.

Well.

Fine then.

"I'll take the one that looks like an asshole."


End file.
